


Sick, Sick, Sick

by Syndicate_V



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cuckolding, F/M, Other, all hail yeezus the inquisitor, god complex inquisitor is my weakness what's up, shady relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndicate_V/pseuds/Syndicate_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you give the girl that wants it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick, Sick, Sick

**Author's Note:**

> tbh I haven't done either romance because I'm really liking being a bomb-ass hella swella Vashoth and I've been waiting to be a behorned being since Origin, so...
> 
> If any of my characterization comes across as shady, it's because I'm going with my gut as opposed to canon.
> 
> And I was in a bit of a rush posting this (for a Secret Santa on GotVG; you'll find it posted there via [this](http://www.gotvg.net/viewstory.php?sid=2479&warning=5) link), so, any slight goofs via editing are my own and I'll gladly own up to them. But not ones like "clit isn't a word", like what Google Chrome is telling me now. Excuse u googs pls.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Considering a follow-up chapter with the much-needed Fade-boning scene. Also because I just really like writing this Inquisitor. Thoughts?~~
> 
>  
> 
> (Normal disclaimers apply, of course.)

She thought him precious, mustering up the courage to reveal his affections to her on the balcony overlooking Skyhold. Thought him adorable when he fumbled--just a bit--to release the latch on her bra. Thought him downright _dashing_ when he pulled her into a hungry lip-lock; all bites and teeth and the pulsing, pounding of _need_.

But it isn't all she wants. The sweet commander of her forces, the starring role in many a maiden's wet dream does it _quite nicely_ for her, but, **she wants more**. Greedy, greedy, greedy. Many a night has she lied in bed (sometimes by her lonesome, oftentimes with Cullen), fingers lazily drawing circles over her clit, bringing herself to a slow-building, shuddering orgasm simply with the thought of _dreams_.

Ah, but it wouldn't be fair to say simply dreaming, now would it? No, her thoughts are pervaded with her pocket apostate, the elf with a curious amount of knowledge about her, about the mark marring her hand, about the Fade.

And her thoughts wander, evening after evening, of him. Of the Fade. Of Fade-fuckings.

The phrase drifts along her mind too close to Cole. The conversation following it was...strained.

But now, as she speaks to the man herself, she finds herself pushing boundaries that were not exactly stated, but simply fact. One does not enter a person's personal space without their permission. It makes it doubly awkward when they're a bit of a religious figure. She won't lie, having all that power does things to her.

He's saying something about demons, about spirits, and--Maker forgive her--she can't bring herself to care. Not when his fingers are fidgeting from behind him to in front of him, steeped there before finding an excuse to muss with his tunic. And she's watching those fingers, noticing the slight nobs in the bends of them, biting her lip when she thinks of them _curling_ ever so exquisitely inside her. Cullen's own fingers are roughly calloused, make finding her sensitive spots an easy feat. She can recall so quickly the expression he held on those strong features when she bucked and twisted around his fingers, outright ordering that he give her "more". It was as if she were the deity they all thought her to be. She'd never come so hard in her life.

"...Inquisitor?" Solas' voice comes into focus at the sound of one of her titles. It's the most common one now, which she is quite glad for. Living in the shadow of Andraste hardly suits her. She shakes herself from fond memories and presses herself close to the man in front of her, not terribly so, just enough for him to be suitably intimidated by her presence. Maybe move back a bit? But, no, Solas does not move, does not even feign to tremble and instead stands his ground. So she is in his face, the fabric of her own tunic pressing against his now-stilled fingers.

"Yes?" She smiles, and it is not one borne of mirth or gladness. No, this is all teeth, all cockiness and bluster. All hunter to the prey. And, _oh_ , but she isn't sure with this one. Isn't sure whether she wants Solas to tremble beneath her as she explores his lithe form and makes him spit curses in Elvish or press her up against a wall and run those knobby fingers within her until she's begging for release.

"You seem...distant. Perhaps this is not the best time for discussion?" His features are carefully blank, but, oh, those eyes. Widening just a bit at her approach, now they've simmered and are making a poor attempt at feigning aloof standoffishness. No, he wants her as badly as she wants him.

"I agree entirely, Solas." Here, she leans back, just the slightest bit. Pretends to not notice the point of his chin follow her. "I can hardly understand your stances on the Fade and the relationship between those living fully within it and those only spending fleeting moments in it. I mean, I've never truly spent time in the Fade, not as you describe it. Perhaps..." Smile curves into a smirk, eyes narrow with _intent_. "You'd care to show me?"

And he knows, just as well as she does (just as well as a majority of Skyhold, quite frankly) about the relationship between her and Cullen. But it doesn't stop his eyes from darting to her lips, doesn't stop his stuttered breath before he quickly composes himself, simply stating: "Of course, Inquisitor."

 

 

The build-up is an awkward affair. She is blocked from much-needed slumber by several messengers, all with missives that demand her attention. She carries them all up to her quarters only to be stopped by Varric at the entrance, suave with his invitation for her to come out and drink with "the little people", but soon amends his statement. "Well, Bull isn't all that little, of course, but you get the idea." The "no" comes easily, with a promise for "next time".

"I'm not terribly eager for you to swindle me out of Inquisition coffers, Varric."

"Ah, but you _are_ eager for what's in your room, I'd wager. Curly seems to have a surprise for you." His grin is downright impish. She waves it off, cold settling in her stomach. Guilt? Hardly. She simply didn't expect a stepping stone in getting what she _wants_.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Varric." She offers as she moves past him. "Don't listen in, you hear?" His laughter recedes as he moves along; she closes the door (locks it; one nosy courier barging in her quarters was enough to make her livid) and sighs against the wood, steeling herself for what is to come. It is when large, brawny arms wrap themselves around her torso that she tenses, visibly forcing herself to relax when she recognizes Cullen.

"I've told you to not do that," She rebukes, but her tone contains little actual bite in it. Make no mistake, she feels curiously _fond_ for this man, it's simply her need to have _everything_ that draws her to Solas. And she's damn-near certain he's has others; she hasn't expressed a need for exclusivity and he's a walking wet dream.

Shameful to let all that go to waste. Even if he's wasting it all on her. She deserves it, deserves it all.

He chuckles in the nook of her neck, bristles of barely-there facial hair giving the promise of whisker burns. He's only marked her when she's given express permission, eager to please in the bedroom while content to argue her down in the war room. It makes for an interesting dynamic, to be sure.

"Right, right," he murmurs distractedly in response, nose tracing curious patterns in the sensitivity of her neck. She sighs once more, wiggles around to face his smoldering gaze with her own.

" _My **dear** commander_ ," she begins, finger rising to follow the angular line of his nose, "Did you need something from your Inquisitor?" The chill deep within her lessens. _It's fine._

Both his hands come up to the door behind her, effectively boxing her in. It's not particularly something she _enjoys_ , but she'll allow him this moment. Earlier in the day, she'd stomped all over his (rather naive) ideas about Orlesian politics. She'd gone with Leliana's plans, to ruin and dismantle reputations, and--at the snap of indignation from her commander--reminded him that _she_ is the end-all, be-all, not him.

He'd simpered. She tried to quell the flush of heat that small victory brought.

And, now, she supposes, is his pithy sort of vengeance. Pressing her against the wall, flexing his muscles and trying to establish dominance. _Oh, darling._

She cares for him; she will not deny this. But, _oh, darling_.

He leans down close to her, the same nose she was tracing the length of now barely tapping her own. One of his hands forces hers up, presses them together against the door. The action raises her tunic, raises her breasts. He offers the beginnings of a smirk in response. She fails at hiding a scowl.

"I only need my Inquisitor to be less...unrelenting in the war room. There's only so much emasculation I can take." His free hand brushes her cheek, thumb swiping the apple of it over and over, the gentle motion at odds with his words, taking on the hint of annoyance.

She leans into his hand, expression turning saccharine. "Told you before. In the war room, I'm quite a different person than in here. I still have to do my job; you still have to do yours."

He hums, features carefully wiped of all emotion before he presses kisses against the slope of her neck. "Doesn't mean I can't give you grief for it." He states in-between pecks, each one more forceful than the last.

She bucks against his other hand, the one holding hers in a tight grip. "And this is grief? You've got a funny idea of punishment, Commander."

His kisses pause. "No titles. Not here." And she has to bite back her disappointment because she loves the way he looks when he's gripping her ass, face mottled with red as he bucks into her, crying out _Inquisitor_ the same way one would cry out _Maker_. She might be able to pry the same worship from him tonight, before dreams and meetings.

But now, she ignores his words, bucking once more into his grip, pressing her clothed tits into his bare chest. He gives a breathy sigh before damn-near dragging her off the wall, pulling her by her wrists to her bed. And down she goes, his heat on top of her, her hands still firmly in his grip.

"You gonna let me go any time soon?" A little peeved, she watches as he makes an attempt to pull up her tunic one-handed, the fabric stopping on top of her breasts. "I guarantee this'd go a lot easier." At the exposure of her bra-clad bosom, he sucks in a small breath.

"For you or me?" He asks. She simply smirks, twists her wrists in his grip once more. At this, he finally acquiesces, removing his grip on her wrists only to slide his hands to her breasts, palming each one in a curiously tender manner. She bucks again, impatiently twisting and grinding against the lack of pressure, seeking, desiring more.

"Me, Cullen. Always, always me." She doesn't stop the smirk on her lips from becoming something a tinge demonic, something he's craved but has tucked that part of him carefully away, something that he's afraid to admit has drawn him to her, to this dangerous power that he will _never possess_.

But Maker take him if he doesn't want to try.

He repositions them, fixes their alignment so that she's higher up on the bed, so that he's able to press the weight of his lower body against hers. He feels the burden within his trousers ( _...As heavy as your old vows, hm, Cullen?_ It was a poor joke on her part, in his opinion), feels it call for attention, and offers an experimental push against the Inquisitor.

Ah, bad idea. The calling has turned to a shrill yell, a near-painful throbbing that denotes that this will be one of their shorter encounters. Nevertheless, the ex-templar intends to make it last as long as he can. Moving his hands, he hooks calloused fingers in her smalls, pulling them down past her knees. Pauses a moment to examine how she looks, all riled up and mussed. Her tunic pushed up, the skin of her breasts peeking out barely behind her brassiere. Down his gaze goes, follows the slope of her stomach and the edges of her hipbones, stops at the curly patch of hair, slicking with her need. Back up go his eyes, meet her parted lips (she wets them, once and once again) and glazing-over eyes, still narrowed and mocking.

"Stop staring," her biting tones draw him from that glossy admiration, bring him back into the present, "And fuck me already."

He snaps into focus, palming his erection as he unlaces his trousers, cursing the intricacies of pants the entire while. Once he's free--blessedly so--he jerks his pants just past his thighs and sinks into her with little preamble. She hisses, head thrown back and nails digging into the fabric of her comforter.

A quickly mumbled "sorry" drags him back to his fumbling youth; her wicked smirk back allays his worries. She leans forward, runs her nails in his hair, finds that one too-sensitive spot. _Pulls._

"Don't let it happen again." And she lays back down, trails those fingers down his shoulder, wraps her legs around him. "Now, as you were, _Commander_."

The title is offered to bait him, he knows it by the glint in her eye, but it does not stop his lips from twisting into a small grimace before he pulls out, leaving only the bulbous tip of his head in, moving his hips in teasing little circles before shoving his length back in, scrotum slapping against her with a thick noise. She bites her lower lip, groans, and gives him back this tightening of her lower muscles, a push-pull of control going between them. She persists, grips her muscles all the further, and, as if cutting a thread, he is lost.

The aftermath is simple, him curling around her body as if she is the world to him, she basking in the afterglow of completion. And yet, she still looks forward to her dreams.


End file.
